


soft lines and blurry edges

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 05:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11616852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: Moments of intimacy, stolen in between, more precious in their rarity.A sharing of touch, as much as a sharing of hearts, between Harold and John.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bliphany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bliphany/gifts).



> Inspired by [these breathtaking illustrations](http://www.boredpanda.com/couple-illustrations-korea-zipcy/). 
> 
> Dedicated to dear, sweet, darling **[bliphany](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bliphany/pseuds/bliphany)** , because I missed her so, and she keeps me inspired and happy, and therefore I can only offer this gift as a token of my friendship. :)

 

**_you breathed out so warm, and I couldn’t help but lose my mind._ **

* * *

 

He almost lost John, today.

No, that’s not precisely correct; he almost loses John _everyday_ , every moment their job leads them into danger, himself a helpless voice on the other end of the line as his mind races to assist in whatever way he can, fingers flying lightning-fast over the keyboard as he fights digitally what John can’t fight physically.

Every time he hears a gunshot on John’s end, it goes straight to his own chest, his heart stuttering as he listens desperately to the sound of John breathing, trying to determine if the gusts of air simply indicate exertion fuelled by adrenaline, or if the belaboured gulps of air indicate John already drowning in his own blood.

He hates the sound of gunfire because it reminds him too much of what he lost; the explosion at the ferry is forever seared into his mind, haunting him still every time he sees the Machine flash the words “NON-RELEVANT”, the image of Nathan’s last gift of a smile before everything whited out overlapping with the image of his lifeless form on the gurney.

He hates the sound of gunfire because it reminds him of what he can lose, _again_.  Losing a friend is one thing.  Losing your other half, your partner, your _soul_ —this time, Harold isn’t sure he’ll still be able to survive.

He isn’t sure he still _wants_ to.

As if sensing the tightening of fingers over clothed skin, John shifts in his arms, tangling their legs together beneath the sheets, tucks his face beneath Harold’s chin, nuzzles the juncture between Harold’s neck and shoulder, and _breathes_.

And Harold _shudders_ , tears suddenly springing to his eyes as his chest tightens with overwhelming gratitude—to _whom_ , he isn’t even sure; to his Machine, perhaps, for watching over her Primary Asset; to a Divine Being he hopes is watching over humanity with an infallibility and benevolence even he couldn’t teach his own digital Creation; but most of all, to John himself.

Because John has chosen to live, today.  Because it’s never an easy choice for John, whose demons keep dogging his steps every time he tries to keep ahead of them, whose heavy heart is weighed down by so much pain that isn’t even his to carry—who only ever wanted to be happy, and to be at peace, and is continuously tempted to seek it in death instead when life and the world continues to deny him of it.

Harold squeezes his eyes shut as he refuses to cry, lest it wake John up, because John needs his sleep after surviving another nightmare today, and he presses a trembling kiss to John’s forehead, hoping that it’ll quiet the monsters that still take over John’s dreams.

 _Thank you,_ he mouths along John’s hairline.   _Thank you for living, for me._

He thinks he feels John smiling against his throat, and he lets the tears cascade silently down his cheeks.

_Please keep living, John.  And I promise—I’ll make every day worth it._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**_his scent was like burying my face in the afternoon pillow filled with sunshine.  I wanted to suddenly hold him._ **

* * *

 

John leans forward with the pretence of looking over Harold’s shoulder as he prattles on about their latest Number, whose photograph and life details are currently flashing on the screen.  

In truth, John is tuning him out, in favour of breathing Harold _in._

Research indicates that the most powerful trigger and vessel of memory is the sense of smell, and John greedily soaks it all in, not wanting to lose even a molecule of it, not wanting to forget, _ever,_ because this: this is _home._

This is the smell of old books and and expensive fabric and dog fur, of the intermingling aroma of black coffee (his), green tea (Harold’s, of course), and breakfast danishes (Bear’s); the smell of Harold’s shampoo, something that reminds him of mint and pine, complementing Harold’s natural earthy smell—and it suits him too, John thinks with a smile, for Harold to resemble the element of Earth, because Harold is _life_ , Harold _grounds him_ , and Harold _nourishes him_ , from the hunger of his body down to his starving soul. Overlaying it all are the smells of antiseptic, gun powder, and static electricity, a reminder of the dangerous life they lead and how John can lose this anytime, if he’s not careful.

His hands tighten on Harold’s shoulders involuntarily.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold says suddenly, half-admonishment, half-amusement.  “I do hope you’ve been paying attention to what I’ve been discussing with you for the past twenty minutes, because I’m curious as to what smelling my hair has to do with saving this woman’s life.”

Harold’s tone is dry and teasing, and John knows he’s expecting a similar rejoinder, but he finds himself suddenly trembling with the effort of holding back everything that’s threatening to spill forth from his lips: _It’s because you smell like life, and I have to hold onto it when I go out there and face death, again; it’s because you smell like home and I need the reminder that I have something to come back to, something to live for; it’s because you smell like happy dreams, the kind I never would’ve thought would come true, the kind I never would’ve believed I deserved to have; it’s because you smell like—like—_

“Sunshine,” he blurts out.

Harold blinks at him owlishly from behind thick-rimmed glasses, his mind process halting with complete confusion.  “I beg your pardon?”

John laughs softly as he wraps his arms around Harold from behind and mashes his face further into Harold’s hair to quell his inexplicable urge to cry.  “You smell like the sun, Harold,” he murmurs.

_Because you’re the light of my life, and I need to hold onto you, because I can’t let the darkness pull me down—again._

Harold snorts.  “Is this your roundabout way of saying I need to bathe more, Mr. Reese?”

John pulls Harold flush against his chest, and smirks at how Harold’s cheeks immediately turn pink.  He pitches his voice low into Harold’s ear.

“Only if there’s room for two in that shower.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

**_sound of your breath between the rain._ **

* * *

 

John has fallen asleep again.

Harold wants to be annoyed with him for failing to appreciate Akira Kurosawa’s ingenious films, but he finds his heart swelling with fondness instead as he lets his gaze travel over John’s prone form, draped over the couch, open and relaxed, chest heaving in deep slumber.  It’s not often that John catches a moment’s respite; their job doesn’t exactly keep regular hours.

He picks up the remote and flicks off the television; Harold’s seen _Seven Samurai_ several times already anyway.  It had been John’s idea to make it a movie night; the Machine had been blessedly silent today, perhaps because even would-be criminals were wary of committing violence under such stormy weather.  Harold had wondered at John’s start of surprise when he excitedly suggested this particular Kurosawa film, and tilted his head curiously at the way John’s eyes had softened at the corners with wonder and wistful affection.

“Are samurai films not to your liking, Mr. Reese?” Harold had asked timidly, worried that he might be imposing his own hobbies on John when he wasn’t particularly interested.

John had shaken his head then; shame-faced and flustered, Harold was about to suggest that they do something else that John wanted when he found himself suddenly enfolded inside a crushing embrace.

“… John?” he asked from somewhere in the vicinity of John’s chest, his voice muffled by John’s shirt.

He had felt the rumbling vibrations as John chuckled, and his tight hold on Harold loosened.  “Just… something that Darren said,” he murmured as he let his lips skim the shell of Harold’s ear.

Harold’s eyes had fallen close as he shivered at John’s ministrations, distracted enough that it took him a while to process whom John was referring to.  “Darren McGrady?”

“Mmm,” John had answered noncommittally, and any other question Harold was about to ask was forestalled by John capturing his mouth with a slow, thorough kiss.

Harold had felt his body suffused with considerably more warmth than the heater of John’s loft allotted for, and his eyes fluttered open to John’s amused, tender gaze.  John had leaned down and nuzzled Harold’s nose, fogging Harold’s glazes with his warm gust of breath as he whispered:

“I’m not a ronin anymore.”

Now, as lightning briefly illuminates the room and thunder rumbles in the distance, Harold pulls the blankets up to tuck John in, and lets the back of his hand caress John’s cheek.  He stirs, but doesn’t wake, and it tugs at Harold’s heart to see how John trusts him so thoroughly like this, enough to let down his guard and render himself completely vulnerable.  Outside, the rain continues to pour, a steady pitter-patter against the windows, but inside the loft the sound is merely a lulling echo, like a distant lullaby.

He considers the implications of John’s earlier statement.  Essentially, a ronin is a samurai without a master.  Harold frowns at that; even though he _did_ technically hire John, he’s uncomfortable with the idea that John may think of him as his “master”; he thinks of their relationship as a _partnership_ , in every possible angle—professionally, emotionally, and now physically—and he doesn’t like the implied power play at work in a master-servant type of relationship.

His fingers skim over John’s lips, and he feels him smile, pressing a ghost of a kiss into his trembling fingertips.

A samurai, however, always fights with a purpose.  And in finding a master, he’s found a _home_.

His thumb brushes over John’s mouth and, overcome with emotion, he bends down and presses his own against John, feeling their breaths mingle.

“I’m not a ronin anymore either,” Harold whispers, and John wraps his arms around him, pulling him down.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

**_still, no idea why I love touching your skin than mine._ **

* * *

They’ve been lovers for several months now, but Harold is still self-conscious around him.

John tries not to take it personally; he knows that their being physically intimate won’t change Harold’s inherently private nature.  He knows that Harold trusts him completely and wholeheartedly, sees and feels it in the way Harold allows himself to fall apart in the throes of orgasm with him— _because_ of him, John can’t help but think with a gleam of smug satisfaction and outright possession.

He knows that it’s not a matter of trust, because they have that from each other—unconditionally, and _exclusively._

But John is not an international spy for nothing, and his innate curiosity is what makes him _good_ at his job.  He can’t stand not knowing _why_.

Harold huffs a sigh of exasperation when John murmurs the question against his hair.  “I feel inadequate, John, if you must know,” Harold mumbles, burying his face into John’s naked chest to hide his suddenly reddening cheeks.

John’s eyebrows rise to his hairline.  “You took me twice last night and twice this morning, and _you_ feel inadequate?” he teases, bumping his nose with Harold’s, coaxing him to meet his eyes.  Harold scowls at him, and John grins at Harold’s embarrassment; the man has absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.  Neither of them are teenagers anymore, but being with Harold makes John _feel_ like he is.  For someone as mature and as handicapped (“handi- _capable,_ Mr. Reese”) as Harold, he’s extremely generous, passionate, and creative in bed.  John can’t ask for a better lover.

(Not to mention the Pavlovian effect on John whenever he sees Harold’s pocket squares and neckties, which Harold also apparently uses for bondage—which Harold happens to be very, _very_ good at.  John has to stop himself from zoning out with helpless arousal every time Harold wears them during their briefings, earning him odd looks from both Lionel and Sameen.)

Harold smacks his chest playfully and without heat, the annoyed expression on his face reminding John of a wet, feral kitten, considering Harold has just taken a shower.  “Not in _that_ sense, Mr. Reese, and I am legitimately _concerned_ about your one-track mind.”

Smirking, John gathers him close to tangle their legs together over the sheets and let his burgeoning arousal nudge at Harold’s hip, making the older man blush fiercely.  “ _Already,_ John?   _Really_?”

“It’s _my_ turn to take you now, don’t you think?” John asks huskily as he moves to cover Harold’s body with his own.  “I need to feel you around me, _Harold_ ,” he whispers hotly, dipping his tongue inside of Harold’s ear, making him shiver.

He also doesn’t miss the way Harold looks away with something akin to _shame_ , and it’s enough to momentarily dampen the urgency of his desire.

“Harold,” John asks softly as he plants gentle kisses along Harold’s jaw, nuzzling him soothingly.  “What’s wrong?”

He feels his neck being bracketed by Harold’s palms—soft and free of calluses, a wealthy man’s hands.  Reluctantly, John pulls away to look into Harold’s eyes, and finds them suspiciously _glistening._ His fingers caress John’s cheekbones, and his words are a watery whisper.

“How can you stand to touch me, John… knowing what I am?  Knowing what I’ve _done_?”  

John’s eyes widen, feeling as if he’s just received a blow to his solar plexus.  Of all the answers Harold could’ve given, he never would’ve expected—never would’ve _wanted_ —for Harold to be just as haunted and broken as _him._

Trembling, Harold’s fingers reach up to smoothen the crease in John’s brows.  “All those lives lost because of me,” Harold whispers mournfully, “all because of my hubris, because I built the _Machine—_ ”

And John can’t take it anymore; he surges forward with an intensity and desperation that leaves Harold gasping and moaning against his mouth as he kisses him fiercely.  He slides his arms around Harold, one hand clutching at Harold’s neck as he carefully lifts him up from the bed, the other hand supporting Harold’s back as he holds him closer.  Beneath his fingers, Harold’s surgical scars are anomalous bumps along the otherwise smooth skin, reminding John that Harold—for all his godlike qualities—is still _human_.

He has lost so much, too.

Eventually, the fervour of their kiss gentles into something more fragile and reverent, with John sliding his tongue sensuously against Harold’s, dipping in and out between Harold’s lips, his hands mimicking the same tender caress over Harold’s back.

 _Precious,_ John can’t help but think, feeling his chest expand and ache, like his heart is going to explode with how much he _feels_ for the man in his arms.   _So, so precious, and_ ** _mine_** _._

“Harold,” John whispers brokenly, throat tightening with emotion, “whatever your regrets about the Machine are…”

He winds his arms around Harold and crushes their bodies together, wanting to dive inside Harold’s ribs and live there and never, _ever_ let go.

“…I will never, _ever_ regret the way it lead me to you.”

_Because if you hadn’t created the Machine, I wouldn’t be alive, today.  And I wouldn’t be with you._

_I wouldn’t have_ **_this_** _._

His hands are shaky when he brushes his thumbs against the hollows beneath Harold’s eyes.  The man truly does work too much—and carries too much of the weight of the world.

“So tell me, Harold… how can I _not_ touch…”

He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together.  Beneath his hand, Harold’s heart beats against his palm, wonderfully present, wonderfully _alive._

“…my own creator?”

He smiles at Harold, and something in Harold’s eyes _shatter_ s.

“ _John_ ,” Harold cries, and kisses him, and kisses him, and _kisses him._

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

**_touching my ear with a deep voice, your lips were much softer and more peculiar than I ever imagined._ **

* * *

John, Harold is both surprised and amused to discover, has a  _thing_ for his ears.

Before, when their relationship was still strictly professional, and they were both still hesitant to complicate matters by tipping the partnership into something more  _personal_ , John would be more subtle about it.  He’d lean over Harold while he was working on his computers at his desk, placing a hand on his elbow and surreptitiously brushing his mouth against Harold’s temple, near the shell of his ear, while casually commenting on their latest Number.  Sometimes, when they were out on the field and trying to either tail or escape their would-be perpetrators, John would crowd him against a wall, closer than what was strictly necessary, murmuring lowly into his ear with warning or reassurance—or both, as the case often was.

When an unspoken, mutual courtship blossomed between them, John’s fascination with his ears became sweeter and more affectionate.  John would throw an arm over the bench where they’d usually sit in the afternoon and let his hand rest on Harold’s shoulder, while Harold would attempt to school John about the different species of birds at the park, despite being pleasantly distracted by the sensation of John nuzzling his lips against the shell of Harold’s ear.  Whenever they’d go watch film festivals on their rare days off and John would get tired of following the subtitles (“I’m a multilingual spy, Finch, remember?”), John would tune out the movie in favour of playing with Harold’s ears inside the dimly-lit cinema.  And whenever he wanted Harold’s attention, John would lightly cuff or pinch Harold’s earlobes, to Harold’s alternating amusement and dismay, before John would seek penance by lightly kissing the tips of Harold’s ears.

On colder days, especially during fall or winter, and Harold’s ears would redden from the dropping temperature, John would go out of his way to bring earmuffs and attach these himself to Harold’s ears—although Harold had noticed that John preferred the method of rubbing his hands together and blowing on them for added heat, and then placing his palms over Harold’s ears to keep them warm.  Harold would look quizzically at John, who’d be grinning at him innocently, confirming Harold’s suspicions that John left behind the earmuffs on purpose.  Harold would then let out a sigh in mock-exasperation and huddle closer instead to John for warmth, and John would happily hold him and throw his scarf around them both, effectively locking Harold into place.

The sight would be greeted with varying reactions: a gagging sound from Lionel, a roll of the eyes from Sameen, an amused smirk from Joss, a fond smile from Root, a playful jibe from Zoe to “get a room boys, you’re heating up the snow”, even an honest to god attempt from Leon to photograph them, in which Harold made sure to never let the gleeful hacker near any of his equipment ever again.  Bear seemed to be happiest whenever this happened though, weaving himself in between his and John’s legs before settling himself over both of their feet: the perfect picture of a happy couple with their dog.

It was a cover that served them well as Professor Whistler and Detective Riley, later on.  John would even use the excuse to blow off steam with some of the more homophobic officers at his precinct, although Harold would often have the opposite problem as he’d artfully dodge the wagging tongues of his overenthusiastic colleagues.  Under Samaritan’s watchful eyes, he and John would often meet to discuss their Numbers under the guise of having a romantic rendezvous.

Although to be fair, Harold thinks as he feels himself flushing all the way up to his ears, it’s not  _always_ a cover.

His breath hitches as he clutches tightly at the sheets while John moves swiftly above and behind him.  Their respective cover jobs and their  _actual_ job have kept them away from each other for several days, and Harold feels the same answering hunger in John in the way he can’t stop  _touching_ him.

“ _God,_ I missed you,” John rasps against his ear.  “Missed  _this_ ,” and John thrusts into him so powerfully that Harold has to bite the pillow to stifle his moan.

John bites at his ear this time, sucking hungrily on his earlobe in time with the unrelenting thrust of his hips, and even as Harold begins seeing stars from John’s exquisite manhandling of him, it occurs to Harold to finally ask.

“John,” he gasps, “John, can I ask—”

“Anything,” John growls, and he’s completely misinterpreting the question, though Harold supposes he can’t blame him, given that he’s nearly losing his mind, himself; “God, Harold,  _anything—_ ”

John reaches around Harold and down between his legs, and Harold moans as he thrusts into John’s hand in the same rhythm John is taking him from behind, and it only takes several more of their desperate, synchronised movements before Harold’s mind whites out in complete, utter bliss as he spills into John’s fingers and feels John empty himself inside him with a long, drawn-out groan.

“I,” Harold pants into the sheets as they both struggle to catch their breath, with John draped heavily over him, “am not going to be able to sit at my desk without feeling this.”  He feels wet, full, and sore.  He’ll be feeling it for  _days._

John chuckles into his ear.  “That’s the idea,” he rumbles possessively as he rearranges them into a more comfortable position on the bed and lets Harold lie against his chest with a satisfied sigh.

“What were you going to ask, by the way?” John asks curiously as he cleans them both up and tosses the soiled tissues in the wastebasket located conveniently near their bed—exactly for this purpose, Harold surmises with amusement.  “I got a little, uh, carried away,” John says sheepishly, though not entirely apologetically, as he licks the shell of Harold’s ear affectionately.

“That, ah, is actually what I’ve been intrigued about,” Harold breathes as John licks a lazy trail from his ear down to his neck and back again.  “Why do you have such a strange fascination with my ears?”

John goes still so suddenly that Harold fears he might have offended John in some way, before he feels John shake against him in quiet laughter.

“Noticed that, have you, Finch?” John drawls.

“It’s very difficult not to, Mr. Reese,” Harold counters dryly.

John props himself up on his elbow to gaze down at Harold.  Backlit by the soft glow of their bedroom’s lamplight, John looks simultaneously relaxed and suffused with the kind of contentment that Harold rarely sees on him.  It makes Harold’s chest ache and swell with the determination to make sure John looks that way more often.

“I like your ears,” John says with a smile as he lets a fingertip trace one of them, “because they’re my connection to you.”

Harold lets his eyes fall close as John’s hand travels downward to rest at his heart.  “Who we are, the work that we do… it doesn’t afford us the luxury to be together like this very often,” John murmurs, and Harold feels a pang of guilt shoot through him at the longing in John’s voice.  Attentive and intuitive as always, John senses Harold’s remorse and lowers himself to kiss it soothingly away.

“And I don’t regret anything, Harold,” John reassures him softly, smiling at him as Harold’s eyes flutter open.  “Really, I don’t.  But it doesn’t stop me from missing you every moment we’re apart.”

“Which is most of the time,” Harold murmurs, unable to keep the sadness from his voice.

John moves to drape himself over Harold, kissing him fully now, slow and languid and thorough and deep, their earlier coupling mellowing out the urgency of their desire into something sweeter, softer.  Harold chases John’s mouth several times whenever John tries to pull away, and John acquiesces with a smile before they eventually have to part for air.

“I’m sorry,” Harold whispers into John’s mouth.  _You deserve more than this.  I’d give you all the time in the world, if I could._

John shakes his head, as if hearing Harold anyway.  “Don’t be,” he gently admonishes, tracing a finger over Harold’s lips.  “Because you’re always with me, anyway.”

Harold blinks, his mind still fuzzy with the hazy warmth and contentment that has wrapped around them both.  “What do you mean?”

John smiles, gathers him close, and whispers lovingly into his ear:

“You there, Finch?”

Harold’s eyes widen.  He feels a lump form in his throat, feels all the goodwill he has for all of humanity condense into an all-encompassing love for the man in his arms, and realises he has been holding the world, all along.

He wraps his arms around John, holds him, and repeats the same vow he intends to keep until the end of their days—together.

“Always, Mr. Reese.”

 

 


End file.
